Page 80 of My Fallen Saint

I take a sip of coffee as he scoffs. “You have far too little faith in me. I’m renting a van,” he tells me, and I almost spit my coffee.

We share a smile, and I want to tell him that I don’t want this to end. But I know he does. Or, rather, he’s told me it has to.

Besides, soon enough, I’m heading back to Manhattan. Like the saying goes, all good things come to an end.

“You got suddenly pensive,” he says, and I force myself to shake it off.

“Nope. Just imagining all the possibilities inherent in a van. And thinking about how this mood suits you,” I add, then tug on his beard to pull his mouth down to mine. “It’s stealthy,” I add before kissing him.

“Stealthy,” he repeats after thoroughly kissing me. “How so?”

“I have the feeling not many people have seen this side of you.”

Almost immediately, he turns serious, and I regret my words.

“No,” he says. “They haven’t.”

“Devlin, I—”

He presses a finger to my lips. “It’s okay. This is ours.”

I nod, cherishing the truth in his words, but also saddened by the knowledge that he’s holding himself back with everyone else.

And that, as I know all too well, is a very lonely way to live.

There’s a missed call from Brandy when I get out of the shower, and I put it on speaker to call her back as I get dressed.

“How’s Vegas?”

“Amazing,” I say.

“Uh-huh. And how are things with Devlin?”

“Things are remarkably good,” I say in a sing-song voice. “And I am not giving you details now because I have to prep for an interview.”

“Fine, fine. But you mean it about the good?”

“Yup,” I tell her, even though the truth is that it’s only good for now. Because as much as I want to stick my head in the sand, I already know that I’m going to be gutted when this ends.

“Then we both have something to celebrate,” Brandy says, sending all my self-pitying thoughts scurrying back to their dark, broody places.

“What? Tell! Is this to do with the guy you made muffins for?”

“Uh-huh. And it turns out he knows you.”

I sit on the edge of the bed in my bra and panties. “Really? Who?”

For a crazy moment, I think it’s Ronan. Devlin can say what he wants—and deep down I know he’s probably right—but I still can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

It isn’t Ronan, of course. And I’m not prepared when she tells me she’s been seeing Christopher Doyle. “That’s so wild,” I tell her. “I don’t really know him. We’ve hardly talked at all. But he seems nice, and it’s not like I can fault another writer.”

“That’s how you came up. He said he has a character in the book he’s researching who’s an investigative journalist and he’d been working up the courage to ask this woman he met in the DSF research room. I knew it had to be you.”

“You told him I’d help, of course.”

“Well, yeah. I need all the points I can get.”

She laughs and I join in. I tell her I’m not sure when I’ll get back—I’m kind of hoping the road trip home takes a few days—but that I’ll see her soon.